


the darkest country road

by alesford



Series: our family of choice [18]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, F/F, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wynaught Brotp, Wynonna Earp Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 10:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15705270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alesford/pseuds/alesford
Summary: One revenant left.There’s only one revenant left to make his peace before they finally, finally, end this godforsaken curse. Before they can breathe a little easier. Before they can begin to heal after so many years of fighting, fighting, fighting.Before Alice can come home.They just have to find him first, and that's easier said than done.





	the darkest country road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ahsiac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahsiac/gifts), [Vythian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vythian/gifts).



 

**the darkest country road**

 

-

 

One revenant left.

There’s only one revenant left to make his peace before they finally, _finally,_ end this godforsaken curse.

Before they can breathe a little easier.

Before they can begin to heal after so many years of fighting, fighting, fighting.

Before Alice can come home.

 

To Alice. Always.

 

That is how Wynonna’s night began. Standing in an empty Shorty’s after chasing down a dead end lead on stupid, motherfudgin’ William Bollinger. There was a bottle of whiskey involved. Always a bottle of whiskey.

Doc was there with his sad blue eyes. He looked at her so forlornly when all she wanted was to see and feel the fire and anger that raged through her blood and rattled her bones and made her heart pound. That spurred her into fierce determination to end this stupid curse. To bring her daughter home.

Their daughter.

 

(To Alice.

Always.)

 

But all she found was melancholic blues and goddamn it, Doc, they only had one more revenant. One more revenant whose goddamn existence stood between them and the little girl, who was sequestered away somewhere safe and warm and as far away from the Ghost River Triangle as possible.

One more.

Except they’ve been after the _one more_ for over three months now. The squirrelly sonuvabitch is worse than a needle in a haystack or getting rid of strawberry-scented glitter from places where the sun don’t shine. It’s _infuriating._

So Wynonna had started drinking.

Same shit, different day.

She drank with Doc and then Doc was too fucking sad and so she hopped onto her motorcycle and banked on her heir reflexes to keep her from crashing into a tree. And she rode. She rides.

She rides through the moonlit night toward the western edge of a triangle until she happens upon some shithole biker dive bar.

It’s familiar territory, in a way. It feels like the time before. Before the clock struck midnight on her twenty-seventh birthday and she turned into a demon-fighting crazy chick with a gun. Before Black Badge and Nicole and Doc and Jeremy and Dolls.

 

Before Alice.

 

Life with the Banditos had been easy. Not like easy-easy. But simpler. The assholes that tried to kill her back then didn’t have glowing red eyes or a shitty penchant for resurrecting from the bowels of hell.

The loud rock and hulking men in leather jackets and bandanas with guns strapped to their thighs and hidden beneath their shirts — it reminds Wynonna of a time before.

And nobody gives her a second glance when she slides onto a stool at the end of the bar. She looks the part. Has always looked the part even before she met Valdez.

There’s a raucous sort of energy in the bar that makes Wynonna feel like she isn’t as alone in her need to feel something beyond grief. It’s rowdy and rough, buzzing beneath her skin in a way that makes her think the pounding of her heart and the blood rushing in her ears isn’t her burden to carry alone. These people know violence and anger and anguish; they know it for the same reasons she does.

 

Kin.

Family.

 

She waves a green, twenty dollar bill at the bartender to catch his attention and he waddles over far slower than Wynonna thinks is appropriate for a packed bar, even on a weekday night.

“Yeah?” he huffs gruffly.

“However many shots of your cheapest whiskey this’ll get me,” she says, slapping the bill onto the beer-damp bar.

He chuffs again but obliges, lining up five shot glasses on the counter in front of her, filling each to the brim with whatever crappy house whiskey they’ve got. She winks at waddling Bob with a click of her tongue before downing each shot rapid fire.

“Shit’s nasty,” she mutters with a scowl as she slams the fifth empty glass onto the wooden bar. She wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand and can already feel the warmth of the alcohol begin to work its magic.

The next two hours are a blur. Somebody buys a round of shots and she ends up with more booze in front of her. Liquor and then beer, even if it’s cheap Labatt Blue — she didn’t pay for it.

Wynonna does what Wynonna does best. She Earps it up. With alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

It’s almost midnight when her phone rings. She feels it vibrate in the pocket of her leather jacket and it takes an unreasonable amount of time to fish it out. She can’t hear the Imperial March over the rockabilly crap blasting from the bar’s speakers but the name _“Officer Haughtshit”_ lights up the screen with a picture of the two of them passed out drunk on top of each other at the homestead.

 

(Dolls had taken the photo when he brought doughnuts and coffee for breakfast. The preceding night of debaucherous drinking had resulted from Nicole ending up in the doghouse after a fight with Waverly over god knows what. Wynonna made it her mission to get the deputy plastered so she could get the juicy details of the fight and yell at both her sister and her best friend for being goddamn idiots. But then they’d just gotten shitfaced drunk and if details were shared, Wynonna couldn’t remember them the next morning when she woke up with her face smooshed against Nicole’s boobs.)

 

Her thumb clicks the button on the side of the phone and she ignores the call. She doesn’t want to think about Nicole or Waverly or Dolls or Doc or even Jeremy. She just wants to pretend for this one night that every time she closes her eyes, she doesn’t imagine a little girl with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. Like her father’s.

Wistful, hurting blue eyes reflecting her own heartache.

 

(To Alice.

Always.

 

Goddamn it, Holliday.)

 

She needs fresh air. She needs not to be here in this dive on the outskirts of nowhere. She needs to be searching for William Bollinger. She needs…

Her phone rings again as soon as she stumbles through the rickety door and she lets it ring this time.

Wynonna still doesn’t answer.

The brisk October air chafes this late at night but it feels almost like a welcome slap to the face. It jolts her one step closer towards sober and it’s enough to make her take notice of her own truck idling in the gravel lot and the bundled up redhead leaning with her back against the front grill, arms folded over her chest.

Wynonna’s eyes narrow.

“What the fuck, Nicole?” she slurs, and she nearly faceplants from the two-step dip from the bar’s foundation as she takes a step forward. She catches herself, though, and totters the distance between them. The gravel crunches beneath her boots. She shoves her hands into her pockets because yeah, it’s actually kind of cold in Alberta this time of year when the sun has already set well beneath the horizon.

“Doc called Waverly,” Nicole says simply, as if that explains everything.

Why she’s here. Why she somehow has Wynonna’s motorcycle already strapped down in the bed of the truck. Why she isn’t annoyed or angry for having to track Wynonna’s phone to a biker bar in the middle of nowhere.

  
Wynonna supposes it kind of explains everything.

  
Because Doc calls Waverly and Waverly talks to Nicole and Nicole… well, Nicole takes care of them all, doesn’t she? She’s their rock, their grounding force, their anchor in this ongoing shitstorm. She’s the one to fish Wynonna out of the drunk tank at three in the morning. The one to drive over an hour west to bring her drunk ass home in the middle of the night. The one to tough-love her back to her senses when she needs it most.

But she’s also the one to sit next to her, to share their grief in silence without any expectations or empty promises and assurances. She’s the one to bring her a bottle of nine year Varmint Whiskey when she knows Wynonna needs to celebrate something and the cheapest bottle of bottom-shelf swill when she needs to forget about everything and then some.

Sometimes Wynonna isn’t sure that they deserve somebody like Nicole.

Except Waverly. Waverly deserves the world and everything that Wynonna has never been able to give her.

“You settled up inside?” Nicole asks.

Wynonna nods. “Yeah… yeah,” she mumbles. Nicole places a steadying hand on her back, opening the passenger side door and making sure Wynonna doesn’t tumble to the ground while trying to climb into the cab.

Nicole doesn’t say anything when she rolls the window down to breathe in the crisp mountain air and stare up at the stars above. Doesn’t say or do anything except reach for the fleece blanket folded neatly and tucked into the space behind Wynonna’s seat before dropping it into her lap.

They drive in silence. No radio, no talking. Just the sounds of an autumnal, Albertan night. They drive and Wynonna feels the fog of alcohol begin to fade away, her head beginning to clear. The clarity brings reality with it, though. With with reality comes a tightness in her chest and tears in her eyes.

She bites back a sob. Clenches her jaw. Tries not to think about her raison d'être these days. Tries not to think…

 

To Alice.

Always.

 

A gloved hand wraps around her own and squeezes gently. _I’m here,_ the gesture says.

Nicole understands. Nicole doesn’t look at her with pity. Doesn’t look at her with sorrow in her eyes and expect Wynonna to express the same. Doesn’t expect Wynonna to be anything she’s not.

She doesn’t let go for the rest of the ride home.

 

“I’ve got you, Earp.”

 

-

 

 _when you feel embarrassed then I'll be your pride_  
_when you need directions then I'll be the guide_  
_for all time_  
_for all time_  
_\- ‘passenger seat’ by death cab for cutie_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Blame Caisha and Vythian for this sadness. The three of us, with input from several lovely Earpers, have put together character playlists for Wynonna, Doc, Dolls, Jeremy, Nicole, and Waverly. That is, playlists that we think they would make for themselves. You can find them [**here at Ghost River Radio**](https://open.spotify.com/user/m9hzfzw7yi6e7qeif7ib576ue?si=Wa4e7LdLS2OM5O8RKeoA4w) on Spotify.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Comments and kudos are always appreciated but never demanded.


End file.
